


Red River

by LeVen



Series: A Million Memories Washed Ashore [4]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Mal is wearing makeup because he deserves to, Slow Dancing, Sorry for my grammar (again), THIS ISN'T EDITED, like at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-18 23:36:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20200060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeVen/pseuds/LeVen
Summary: Malachi feels the burn of wrath, but he doesn't know where he begins and the pain ends.





	Red River

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gravitaz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gravitaz/gifts).

> There was gonna be more to this, but I got tired of writing it. But I like what I have.

It was not his vanity. It belonged to the queen. Technically, everything inside the palace belonged to the queen. It was probably older than he was. Mal isn’t used to parties or big events. The one hosted by the queen nearly a year ago had been his first major one, and it ended in the death of the archivist and the escape of several necromancers. Growing up, his family didn’t throw elaborate celebrations, didn’t follow any particular religion, and had no region-specific holidays. The servants followed their own beliefs, many of them took with them the customs of Edrua. Mal felt left out in the end, because what good was learning about how to behave in a social circumstance if he never got to attend? 

The rouge sitting in his palm was his own. In his youth, he wore makeup. Privately, he used to apply so much powder he looked like a ghost. He liked the white in his face and would tie up his hair in a pale imitation of looking like a court lady. With a bit of red on the lips, he looked like he’d drowned in the lake and got tied up by his hair. It was the one time his mother walked in on him wearing it, and he learned moderation after that day. 

Now he had no mother and no father to tell him what to wear. It didn’t feel as liberating as he once thought it would be. 

As an adult traveling, he slowly acquired more of the makeup. Now, he had a modest collection of the basics. Nothing like what his sisters used to own, they were cheaper. The expense was in the containers made of carved wood. His sisters all knew how to make their own makeup, they never taught him, and he now had to simply buy. Mal doesn’t mind it. 

His hair is pulled into a braid over his shoulder. From the way he combed through it, the white doesn’t contrast as sharply as it would when parted normally. A single red ribbon ties the braid together. While Mal isn’t one to style his hair, having it pulled back keeps it neat during sleep. A blessing considering how long it got since he started this adventure. 

Alethra hasn’t returned from her meeting with the Queen. They’re given quarters in the guest wing. He wouldn’t be surprised if she had her own permanent rooms of her own, considering her status and place within the guard. But Mal doesn’t live in the capital and is grateful for her generosity in letting him borrow some rooms. He doesn’t ask Alethra if she would join him in his. They’re well past that and she comes as she pleases when they’re together. However, it’s unseemly since they’re unwed. These days, Malachi is having a hard time finding the will to care about anything. 

Mal pulls the powder from the red lacquer box, thumbing open the round container. It’s paler than his normal complexion by two tones. Not nearly enough to create a stark difference, but enough to be just noticeable if he applies with a heavy hand. It takes out the red burn on his cheeks from the sun, but the powder cakes around the dry skin. Adding red to his lips takes the eyes away from his cheeks. He looks almost normal. 

A knock from the door draws his attention from his face in the mirror. He almost didn’t notice it. “Yes?” 

Alethra appears in the doorframe, tentatively stepping inside and shutting the door behind her. She leans against the door, thumbing along the grain of the wood.  
“Hi,” She says.

“Hi.” He says back. 

Malachi doesn’t ask why she’s here, but just seeing her quiets the thoughts in his head and brings him a bit of comfort. Its when her soft gaze lingers over his sitting form he remembers he’s in his nightclothes, and Alethra is still very much dressed. He’s not exposed, but the long length of the robe could be considered slightly translucent in some lights. Alethra seems to finally notice and straightens. 

“Sorry, I-I can leave.” Her cheeks turn a soft shade of red when she realizes. He isn’t sure why they’re still embarrassed when she catches him in his sleep clothes. They’ve seen each other naked more than once. But expose a collar bone and they get bashful. 

His sleep clothes hang lower than he normally dresses. A normal collar for someone without a scar to hide, but he still feels insecure, even on his own. The forcible reveal of his deepest trauma in a small way aided his slowly gaining comfort in letting people see. Mal can’t help but laugh, waving his hand by his face dismissively. 

“No, stay.” He says. “It’s good you came, I needed the company.” There’s more to it than that, always choosing his words carefully and never really saying everything. She knows more about him than he ever wanted to let anyone know, and he would gladly open his heart open again for her if she asked him to. 

She does stay. It warms him. 

Alethra walks inside the rest of the room, dragging an extra chair to sit with him at the vanity. They sit and stare at each other, mostly enjoying the company, before Alethra finally squints and leans forward. “Are you wearing makeup?” It’s not the accusation his mother had when she caught him that one time, but it’s enough to put his sleeve to his cheek. Mal doesn’t get very far before she stops him. She takes his hand in both of hers, brushing out the makeup from the white sleeve. It isn’t very noticeable, at least, but makeup always has a distinctive smell. “You don’t need to do that,” She says, turning over his hand to trace her thumb across the creases on his palm. “You look nice, I mean.” 

Mal offers her a tiny smile, but she isn’t looking at him anymore. She’s studying the hand she holds. “Thanks.” He says and lets her play with his hand as long as she wanted to. And she does hold it for a while, sometimes running a callused thumb across the back of his hand. 

“I didn’t know you wore makeup.” She says. They sat in silence for a while, not feeling any need to hold a conversation. The hour is late, he forgot to ask her how the meeting went. 

“Sometimes,” He says. Mal gently takes his hand back, putting everything back inside the box where it belonged. “I got better at it, you don’t notice when I do.” Alethra opens her mouth to protest that she would have noticed, but closes it instead. He had gotten better, the reason she knew now was how heavy he applied the makeup. Before he puts the last thing away, he holds up the rouge in the light of the candle. 

“My mother used to wear this,” He says. “It’s cheap, but the container is well made and reusable. Yara used to make new balm from the roses in the garden. She used to slather a little bit of it on my wrists because I liked how it smelled.”

The topic of his family was now more difficult than ever to bring up. There were unspoken rules, mostly to let him gradually accept his death and what they did to him. While Yara herself had never been completely innocent, he always had a soft spot for her. That made it harder to wipe the blood from her hands and move on. But considering the sacrifices Alethra made for him, she deserved to know more than anybody the happy moments in his life. 

“I don’t know how to make these things. Mostly I stole the last little bits from them before they could scrap the rest or bought through someone else.” He flips the braid over his shoulder, then leans into her a little bit. They’re at an awkward angle for invading each other’s spaces, but he tries to make it work. “Did you know I used to put so much on, I looked like I was a ghost?” A chuckle finishes the question. He can easily remember how he looked, he was so pale then, it didn’t take that much to make him look ghastly. In hindsight, that was part of the fun of it. Mal is more weathered now, a little more sun-kissed, just like everyone else. Twenty-five years into his life and this was the closest he’d ever come to normalcy. 

Alethra giggles a little. “I can see it.” 

His eyes shine with more light than could be held in them. With his mood lifted, he turns the makeup over in his untaken hand. “I really did look horrible.” He says.  
“Nothing of you could ever look horrible.” Her words bring a shy smile to his face. He’d thought of using the makeup to cover the scar but nothing could ever hide that part of his life anymore. He would bear the mark and live his life because it wasn’t fair for Alethra to have given up her own only for him to hide from it a second time.  
In a fit of wild, pent up energy, Malachi hurls the rouge across the room. It connects to the wall with a thunk, but because the container is made of wood, it doesn’t shatter. Alethra looks surprised, flinching at his sudden anger. She looks like she wants to say something, her gaze leveling over him and the abused item across the room. 

“I hate them.” He forces the words past his teeth, letting them end with a hiss. “I hate them so much.” Even Yara, his precious sister. The better of them, but even she had done things he could never forgive her for. He could see their actions clearly now. Whatever she’d done to make his life a little easier, it still hadn’t been enough. Malachi still died that night. If she loved him, she would have tried harder. 

“I know.” Alethra eases out the tension in his grip one hand at a time. Slowly, she unravels him again until he sits as docile as he always did. “You’re angry, Mal. You’re allowed to be mad. Don’t let it consume you.” 

Except… he doesn’t know where he ends and anger beings. Malachi bound himself to wrath weeks ago. It had been drawn to his pain, feeding off of it. He should be better at controlling the spirits bound to his will, but the release of their effects soothed some of the after-burn. His temper was more noticeable these days, but he allowed wrath to slowly take apart the hurt. That was what he offered it in exchange for service. 

Mal takes another long breath. He lets it sit in his lungs until they burn, then releases it all at once. “I’m fine,” He says. “It’s wrath. I let my control slip.” He didn’t dare bind to hunger again, knowing just how easily he could get used to not needing sustenance. It would be dangerous for his health if he let himself become addicted to a spirit sustaining him. Nauseating when the spirit was finally turned loose. He’d never been so hungry in his life. 

Alethra finally accepts this, knowing the surges were spent from years of pent up frustration. Wrath was picking it all apart, gleefully feeding off the anger he dutifully gave it. In the end, it left him tired, the deeper it went. He was glad to look at his past and not feel the same fury. Wrath was doing him a kindness, it did not pick too far where it was not welcome. 

“Dance with me?” He asks. 

Alethra’s first response is to shake her head and deny it. “Oh no, I don’t know how.” Mal laughs. 

“If Ankaurk and Sanetra could teach me how to dance, I’m sure I could teach you.” Sanetra had been insistent on it. As a noblewoman’s son, legitimate or not, it was important for him to learn how. If he was parading around as Lilliana and Osran’s true son, he would have to know. And then, when he learned the basics, Ankaurk taught him dances that were much more fun than old fashioned ballroom dances. They took care of him, and for this, he’s grateful.

He stands, pulling Alethra up with him. With the chairs pushed aside, the room felt much more open. Now, there was plenty of space to move around, but all Mal wanted to do was be close to her. 

In truth, Malachi loved to dance. As a young child, he danced whenever he wanted. Now, he had a rhythm to match. He was truly surprised no one had caught him in the act yet. 

He took her hand in his, one of her hands onto his shoulder and his final one on her waist. Their height made it a bit awkward, especially if he was the one to lead. Mal was so confident when he put them into this position, and he was thankful for the powder covering the blush he knew would be there. Even up close Malachi was still captured by Alethra, drawn in by her subtle, powerful beauty.

Alethra clears her throat. Her cheeks are a bit red and she glances off by his ear. “How do we do this?” Very tactfully pulling attention to the fact he’d been staring at her again. It never really occurred to Mal that she wouldn’t know how to dance. For someone like him, it had been a natural part of his studies. Alethra wasn’t as lucky as he was. While Malachi’s family ended up being despicable, he’d still grew up in relative luxury. What did Alethra have? 

“You take steps by counts, the man leads and keeps us from bumping into everything.” He explains, taking small steps to quietly direct where she was supposed to take herself. Their pace is awkward, their chests bumping into each other before a rhythm is finally settled. The transition from bumpy to smooth felt seamless as Leth finally figured out the basics and stopped fumbling. She learned so quickly it left him dizzy, or maybe it was because they were spinning too much.  
Under his breath he hums a light tune, letting his feet follow the melody and let the rest figure it out. He was too shy to sing to Leth, but it was more fun to dance to something rather than nothing. 

“I never went to any parties.” He whispers. Mal leans closer to her, he doesn’t even realize the lead has changed between them. “So I never got to dance with a partner when I became of age.” The family never even hosted any. As far as Malachi knew, the Havermoon’s kept their affairs as privately as possible, only the outer families tended to host and attend. Whether or not Lilliana herself attended any while serving as advisor remained unknown to him. He didn’t really care. 

He smiles a little. “I’m glad to know they involve slightly less murder than the books like to say.” It was too soon to make jokes about the dead archivist, but the few they attended together left the same number of attendees leaving as arriving. Thankfully.  
“You’re not missing much,” Alethra says with a quiet laugh. “Been to one, been to them all.” Except, that couldn’t be exactly the case. Someone always wanted to outdo the other. They both knew too well how violent the nobility could be.  
Mal rests his head on her shoulder, closes his eyes, and lets himself be carried by her. “I love you.” He says. 

“I know.” Alethra returns. “I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> It's risky business doing drabbles ahead of the campaign, but I have long accepted that a lot of my work will be retconned at some point.  
Also, I really enjoyed playing around with the idea of the spirits bound to Mal influencing him in some way. The bartering he does with them is much more personal than the other Unity Coven witches. As a result, their release affect him more.


End file.
